


Mercenary Heart

by Nanoochka



Series: Little Lion Man [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Age Difference, Alexios has more daddy issues than a subscription to Today's Parent, Alexios/Brasidas is this ship this game deserves, Bottom Alexios, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Dom/sub, Light daddy kink, M/M, Missing Scene, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to past Alexios/Thaletas, Spoilers, Top Brasidas, Undernegotiated Kink, references to institutionalized pederasty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-19 12:49:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17601680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanoochka/pseuds/Nanoochka
Summary: The first time Alexios sees Brasidas, the world is on fire, a blaze that catches fast and burns for days. In the months and years to come, he'll come to recognize it as a none-too-subtle metaphor for their friendship... and everything else that follows.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my ride-or-die gal [R.C.](http://rcmclachlan.tumblr.com) for the beta, especially since she has ZERO INTEREST in this game. A true friend is one who supports your daddy kink without question.
> 
> This is a combination of missing scenes written amongst actual game cutscenes, and while I tried to keep the latter to a minimum, it felt right to try to situate everything within the whole, rather than as a collection of random vignettes. So if some of the dialogue seems familiar to you, you're not imagining it. 
> 
> Other missing scenes might follow because Brasidas and Alexios stay friends for a pretty big chunk of their lives, but I see this as laying the groundwork for future additions to the series.
> 
> [Feel free to hmu on tumblr.](http://nanoochka.tumblr.com)

Blood, shit, and sweat: these were the smells of Sparta.

Alexios smelled him before he ever saw him, before he knew his name. Sweat and blood, the scent of sparks and metal as his spear flew like a comet, shit as men soiled themselves as they screamed and died. Smoke, too, as the warehouse blazed around them and sent ash and flames billowing into the sultry night. Korinth was dry and hot this time of year; fire caught fast and would burn for days. In the months and years that followed, Alexios would come to recognize it as a none-too-subtle metaphor.

At first all he could do was watch, struck mute before the mysterious Spartan who appeared like Hades from between the flames to claim his souls for the underworld. Alexios never did that—hesitated. His mother’s words rang in his ears: _It only hastens the grave._ That was a fact he knew sure as breathing, but his feet were rooted to the spot until a spear flew and impaled a _malákas_ criminal who’d snuck up on him from behind.

The soldier who’d thrown it glared at him in simple meaning: _Are you here to watch, or fight?_

As he leapt again into action, bronze armor gleaming, braid flying, he used his whole body like a finely honed blade, his force of will the only match for his skill. Blood dripped from his shield in such quantity that Alexios did not, at first, notice the scratched red lambda that adorned it, though there was no mistaking that caliber of fighter for anything but a son of Sparta. Not since Nikolaos had Alexios witnessed a fighter of such deadly, confident grace. Not since… himself, if he were honest.

Who in Zeus’s name was he? Alexios didn’t know whether to be impressed or envious.

Then he was drawn back into the fight and his choice became join forces or perish. He and the soldier moved together like partners in a fearsome dance, never speaking except with their eyes, swords, bodies. Fluid and fatal. They didn’t stop until nothing but dead men and destruction surrounded them, the warehouse crumbling as though the very fist of Zeus had come down to remake the world, or at least this seedy corner of Korinthia. Internally Alexios sighed. This was why people didn’t invite him places.

Outside, when they stood out of breath and only slightly worse for wear on the docks, blood turning the cobblestones dark and the fire continuing to rage behind them, the soldier turned and thanked him as though he hadn’t just saved Alexios’s life. The billowing smoke of the blaze stained the night sky even darker and stung Alexios’s eyes.

“I would thank you too, if I knew who you were,” he said.   

The Spartan smiled. He was older, scarred and weatherbeaten beneath his dark, heavy beard and frank gaze, but not old. Handsome as well, enough that it was tempting for Alexios to look his fill. For such a brutally efficient merchant of death, he had kind eyes and a mouth unhardened by cruelty. His voice and relaxed features were so convivial that Alexios might’ve doubted he was a soldier at all had he not worn a polemarch’s gleaming cuirass and pteruges.

As if he sensed Alexios’s lingering assessment, the soldier’s hazel eyes sparkled with humour. “Brasidas of Sparta.”

And that, that was a name Alexios knew. Unless they’d been living under a rock, everyone knew of Brasidas, Athenian and Spartan alike. He was one of Sparta’s most distinguished officers and a trusted advisor to the kings, as feared and respected on the battlefield as he was clever and efficient in his methods. When Alexios was a child, Brasidas had been a young officer rising through the ranks, full of promise and ambition. Myrrine and Nikolaos spoke of him often. Why in Hades was someone so decorated pursuing petty criminals in Korinthia?

Brasidas let his name register and said, “You’re a newcomer to Korinth.”

Alexios blinked. Word spread faster than fleas around Hellas. He’d taken care to stick to the shadows so as not to draw attention to himself, but apparently he hadn’t succeeded. Then again, subtlety was never his strength. People tended to notice a trail of bodies and arson; they whispered about the eagle-bearing _misthios_. Ikaros was a reputation that quite literally preceded him, screaming overhead. “You’re a spy too?”

“An old Spartan tactic,” Brasidas said mysteriously. He cupped a hand beneath the opposite elbow with a thoughtful, shrewd expression.  There was no mistaking the gleam in his eye as he cast Alexios a coy sidelong glance and added, “I have my ways.”

In other words, Brasidas wasn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty. Never trust another man to get done what you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do yourself. It was the Spartan way. Alexios might not be Spartan any longer, but that, if nothing else, was something he could understand. A bit of tension seeped out of his shoulders as he fought the urge to snort.

“I get the sense that’s a Korinthian hobby,” he said.

They parted ways, then, after briefly discussing Alexios’s past, the path ahead, and the possible whereabouts of his _mater_. Brasidas had known Myrrine well but was not much help there; she was a ghost. Yet as he promised they were in the fight together, funnily enough, Alexios believed him. Something about his demeanour, the directness of his gaze and easy, straightforward manner made him seem genuine. That was rare. And Alexios was not easily given over to trust, especially not where Spartans were concerned.

Just twice more they met, once to discuss how the Monger should be dispatched, and after, when the deed was done and the blood was barely washed from Alexios’s hands. Firelight and wine; the sound of Korinth celebrating around them and fading into the background as Alexios forgot the world. That night... It was one he tended to avoid thinking about except on the loneliest of evenings. It was simply his misfortune that, for a misthios, there was no shortage of those.

Sometimes he thought of that night quite a lot. Its memories could be as seductive as the touch of calloused fingers against his cheek, if Alexios let them. Easier to throw himself into the bloody work of avenging his family, finding his mater, and saving his sister—or what remained of her to be saved. But nor could he quite put it out of his mind.

Now months had passed, over two years, in fact, consumed by Alexios’s pursuit of the Cult of Kosmos all over Hellas. It felt like his life had collapsed and rebuilt itself a hundred times since. Reuniting with Myrrine. Losing Phoibe. Meeting his _pater_ , his _real_ one, who was as distant and foreign to him as one of the gods. For Alexios tragedy and victory ebbed and flowed like the waves the Adrestia split beneath her prow.

For all his travels, all the Spartans he’d encountered, fought, killed, worked for, he hadn’t seen Brasidas since. Oh, he’d heard his name mentioned often, the polemarch who dominated battlefields in Sparta’s name and commanded the undying devotion of his men. The greatest strategist of his generation, it was said, as cunning as he was wise. Brasidas was named ephor and then general in an uncannily short period of time; he was Sparta’s chosen son. But Alexios cared not for such exploits. What he remembered of Brasidas was his face, his kind gaze, and the way his mouth seemed perpetually tilted with good humour, laughing at a joke only he knew.

Alexios hadn’t guarded his heart well in his quest to avenge his family and destroy the Cult; the tender wounds dealt him on Mykonos still smarted. Perhaps that was the reason for this… sensitivity. His insides were raw and exposed, whatever the armor he tried to build around himself. As he and Myrrine crossed into Lakonia, he caught himself glancing twice at every bearded soldier he saw, searching crowds on the streets of Sparta for a familiar smile and mischievous eyes. Looking while telling himself he sought no one in particular. He was acting like an eromenos with a crush. Hadn’t he just learned his lesson with Thaletas? Time to snap out of it.

Their old house in Sparta was unchanged after almost twenty years. Perhaps the ivy crawling up the facade was a bit heavier, the paint and whitewash more weatherbeaten, but it was so jarringly familiar that, at the sight of it, Alexios staggered and couldn’t find his words at first. His life had ended here, and the world bore no sign of it. Perhaps he’d never been here at all.

In the distance, Mount Taygetos looked on, regal and impassive as ever. Unmoved. A mountain was no fit guardian, he thought. She stood sentry over those cradled in her shadow, yes, but she also kept people out. That included those trying to find their way back home.

“This is the first and last place I ever felt safe,” he said. Now it was just words. A memory that’d happened to someone else.

Myrrine was studying him contemplatively. “My heart broke that day,” she said as if she could see his thoughts. That was a miracle, for Alexios hardly knew his own; sadness and anger ruled together in chaos. “But for the first time in ages, standing here with you, I truly believe it can mend again.”

With a stony expression, he stared hard at his mother’s face, willing the cracks not to show. Her optimism was admirable. Alexios just didn’t know if he shared it yet or ever would again. He bore so many scars and old wounds that he’d lost count of them all. The part of himself built for hope might be permanently crippled by now.

But the Fates had a funny way of proving mortals wrong. As Alexios was about to open his mouth to disagree, a voice said, “The gods must be playing tricks on my eyes.”

Alexios turned, and Brasidas was simply... there. Smiling, always, looking as resplendent and golden as a sunrise in his new strategos’s armor. He stood with his hand outstretched as though he and Alexios had said their farewells and parted ways only a handful of days ago. Again the thought occurred that Brasidas must be some kind of lesser god or spirit, appearing at will between one breath and the next. He hardly seemed to stir the air, yet he’d left ripples in Alexios’s life for years.  

Sadness momentarily forgotten, joy overtook him so swiftly it was almost like pain. He strode forward and grasped Brasidas’s arm powerfully, smiling until he thought it might split his face. Alexios barely stopped himself from hugging him in time. “Good to see you, Brasidas!” he bellowed. “It’s been a long time since I rescued you from the warehouse fire in Korinth.”

The laugh that burst from Brasidas’s chest was the same low rasp Alexios remembered. It raised the hair on his arms, sent a shiver through him when he caught the familiar tempting glint of Brasidas’s eyes. Humour and something darker, a vein of gold through obsidian. As ever Brasidas was everything and nothing like the persona he presented to the world. Alexios had learned this perhaps better than anyone.

“That’s not how I remember it,” Brasidas said with a wide smile, holding Alexios’s eyes a beat too long before he looked to Myrrine.

She glanced between them but, to her credit, had the grace not to react. Alexios found himself blushing anyway.

“You look well, Brasidas,” she said. The smile she turned on him was genuine, the crinkles at the corner of her eyes hinting at old affection from a past life. Not immune to his charm or good humour either, it seemed. Like mater, like son.

Certainly Brasidas’s enthusiasm did nothing to dispel this impression, nor the astonishment in his voice. “The rumours were true! You’re alive.”

Myrrine spread her hands and said, “Many we thought to be dead are still breathing.” Well, Alexios certainly couldn’t argue with that. Here they were, walking proof.

Brasidas too tilted his head in acknowledgement, then turned his gaze back on Alexios. In the sunlight his irises looked like burnt honey, leonine and sharp. Funny how they shifted to green in certain light, other times gold. Alexios made no effort to hide the fact that he’d been staring. “When I heard the two of you came home…”

Myrrine shook her head. “We’re in Sparta, but we’re not home yet.”

Alexios didn’t need more prompting than that. They’d come here with a purpose that didn’t, much as he wished otherwise, include mooning over a Spartan general like a fool, no matter how captivating the general in question happened to be. “We want our house back, Brasidas,” he said.

Brasidas frowned. “Sparta claimed your estate after Nikolaos’s disappearance,” he answered, sounding more awkward than Alexios had ever heard him. But there was no apology in his voice, only facts. Typical Spartan. “They’re waiting for his adopted son to claim it, but he hasn’t returned from the war.”

“Stentor?” That _maláka_. Alexios planted his hands on his hips and paced a couple steps to cool himself down, mightily resisting the urge to kick something in the process. He had hated his adopted step-brother on sight and kept finding new reasons to despise him, pompous fucking thorn in his side that he was. “I knew I should have killed him on the beach.” With a growl and a curl of his lip, he asked, “What do we have to do to get it back?”

The answer, of course, was another task. There was always another task, and it always involved killing people. Gods, but Alexios was so tired. Brasidas looked at him in sympathy and suggested Alexios meet him after it was done. Sometimes he really did feel like he was on a hero’s quest, cutting a bloody swath through Hellas for the promise of a smile.

Without feeling, he smiled back. “So to get our house back, I must take out a Spartan commander responsible for inciting a useless rebellion and kill the highly trained assassins helping him.”

Myrrine had called the Krypteia the most deadly warriors Sparta had to offer, ruthless killers honed into the sharpest of blades since childhood.

Alexios sighed. “Sounds easy enough.”

 

+

 

“That went well,” Alexios said as Brasidas accompanied him and Myrrine out of the throne room and back to their old home. He was still covered in gore from having dispatched the Spartan traitor and rebel Krypteia, and the blood was beginning to itch uncomfortably beneath his armor and in the creases of his fingers and elbows. Normally he would’ve taken the time to bathe before even thinking about seeking an audience with a king, much less two, but when Alexios had mentioned needing a wash, Brasidas insisted on haste.

“It might even help your cause,” he’d commented with a sly smile and an assessing look that spanned Alexios from head to foot. It left him feeling warm and vaguely tongue-tied, and Alexios never got tongue-tied. “There’s nothing that moves a Spartan king more than the sight of a warrior fresh from battle. Especially when it has served their interests.”

Now he smiled at Alexios and Myrrine proudly, satisfied but not smug that his plan to gain the kings’ favour had succeeded. “Considering you still have a head on your shoulders,” he agreed with a laugh, “yes, I’d say it went very well.” Alexios tilted a lazy grin at him in response, smile widening when Brasidas echoed it.

Myrrine was more sedate, but Alexios could tell she too was heartened. And why shouldn’t she be? Brasidas was right: they could just as easily be dead by now. “The kings were generous to give us a second chance.”

He snorted. Maybe it was the novelty of a rare victory for once, or the promise of one, but he found some of his humour returning. Or perhaps he was just delirious in the face of the frankly impossible tasks Kings Archidamos and Pausanias had set before him to restore their Spartan citizenship and home. “All I have to do is win the Olympics.”

“And a war,” Myrrine reminded him.

Brasidas looked at them like they might have finally lost it. Momentarily Alexios envied him his life. For them, this was nothing. “Is there anything you need to know before setting off?” Brasidas asked hesitantly.

Alexios bit back the urge to say something flippant. “One of these kings is a Cultist,” he said, “so one of these tasks is surely a trap. But which one?”

“Brasidas?” Myrrine prompted.

If Alexios had expected that to temper Brasidas’s wry humour, he shouldn’t have. Was there anything that managed to put him in a bad mood? He’d almost hate to see it. “I wouldn’t say that within earshot of the palace,” Brasidas quipped like they weren’t casually discussing treason. “But I’ve fought with both of them. I can’t believe either is a traitor.”

“We need to find proof before we make any accusations,” Myrrine warned. “Keep your eyes open.”

Alexios nodded. “I think I’m ready,” he said. He’d figure it out like he always did. To Myrrine he asked, “And you? What will you do while I’m gone?”

The way her expression went carefully blank told Alexios she was steeling herself for something. That usually meant he wouldn’t like what she was about to say. “I received a message just before we went in.”

“What kind of message?”

“A clue to the whereabouts of another Cultist.” She grimaced. “I’m going to Arkadia.”

“Alone?”

Like he could tell Alexios was on the verge of rethinking his entire plan around her, Brasidas stepped in. “The Fates are smiling on us,” he said brightly. “I was ordered there. We can travel together.”

“That would be helpful. My thanks.” Myrrine’s smile was genuine, and she and Brasidas smiled at each other like a couple of children about to get up to no good. Suddenly Alexios wasn’t sure he appreciated how damned cheerful _either_ of them were about marching off into danger. _Malákes_ Spartans, they had more balls than good sense, every last one of them. But he could hardly accuse them of recklessness when he was, well… him. Besides, a Spartan was never reckless, only assured of victory.

He glowered but stuffed down the urge to transform into an overprotective mother bear. Myrrine could more than look after herself, and Brasidas would probably have all of Arkadia eating out of the palm of his hand five minutes after he crossed the border. Certainly this had nothing at all to do with feeling left out.

“I’ll meet you both in Arkadia, then,” he said with reluctance. “Safe journeys.”

With a smile for Myrrine and a last lingering look at Alexios, Brasidas turned and began to walk back down the hill, presumably for home. They wouldn’t depart until morning, when horses could be readied and preparations made for the journey north. Alexios watched him go with regret.

When he turned back to his mother, she was watching him too. A ghost of amusement and something knowing lingered in her smile, and Alexios raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. He sighed, a clear _go ahead_. It was no great secret she could still read him like a wax tablet; she might as well have out with it.

“It will be some time before you join us,” she began, then didn’t say anything further, cryptic as an Oracle.

“Oh, months, probably, assuming I don’t kill myself on these fools’ errands I’ve been given,” Alexios answered, playing along. “And?”

“Brasidas is a man with many stories. And so are you, my lamb.” Myrrine held his gaze placidly like they didn’t both know a double meaning hid beneath her words. “It would be nice to catch up with him before you will be forced to part again so quickly, don’t you think? The night is still young and sweet.”

Despite the absence of judgement in her eyes, something lurched in Alexios’s stomach. He forced himself to remember the way she and General Timo had behaved around each other on Naxos, the tenderness with which Myrrine had called her “my sweet” or how long Timo stood watching the Adrestia sail away. Perhaps she was waiting even now. Whatever Alexios's secrets, they were safe with his mater. _He_ was safe with her.  

But some admissions came easier than others, and he found he couldn’t say out loud what he hadn’t quite admitted to himself. “It will be many months before I see you again as well, Mater,” he said. “We too might pass a pleasant evening before we go our separate ways, no?”

At that she smiled openly and reached out to lay her palm along his cheek, as steady and sure as when he was a boy and she was about to impart some wisdom he might not understand for years yet.

“And sweet you are to say so,” she said. “But we’ve our whole lives yet for that, and you and I both know it isn’t the same. Nor is it what I mean.” She nodded in the direction Brasidas had gone. “He lives near the Temple of Dionysos Kolonatas, on his pater Tellis’s old estate. Go share a _krater_ of wine and be merry, Alexios.”

“And what will you do?”

Myrrine waved him off. “Our cousin King Pausanias has graciously offered me rooms in the palace, so do not worry about me.”

“It seems you have thought of everything,” Alexios said. But then he raised an eyebrow and folded his arms, regarding her critically. “Except, of course, where I will spend the night. Am I meant to sleep in the bushes outside our home?”

Myrrine gave a very unladylike snort and rolled her eyes. “Lamb, Brasidas is an unmarried man with a house to himself. I am sure the two of you can come to some kind of arrangement.” More slyly she added, “Perhaps this way I will not have to listen to you sighing all night. No doubt Barnabas and your crew will thank me for this kindness as well.”

“I do not sigh,” said Alexios.

“You do. And I see how you sigh after him in particular, lamb. These are things a son cannot hide from his mater.” As Alexios sputtered a denial, she just watched his bluster blow itself out, eyes laughing. “You should just tell him. I do not think he will be unkind.”

Alexios grunted. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Alexios—”

“Mater,” he interrupted in the same exasperated tone. Myrrine gave him an annoyed look that made him smile despite himself, flashing his most charming grin before he subsided. She just sighed and folded her arms, immune, unknowingly the mirror image of her son. Alexios huffed.

“I will find him for a drink, but there’s nothing to tell because it’s already been laid to rest,” he said. “He… addressed the matter when I met him in Korinth. Consider it behind us.” He was surprised how easy the lie came. Perhaps if he spoke it enough, it’d become true.

Myrrine’s forehead creased in understanding but not pity. The way the moonlight picked out her freckles and the brown of her eyes, she looked so very like Kassandra, or what Kassandra might look like if the Cult hadn’t eradicated her ability to love, to express compassion. But nor was Myrrine particularly emotive. Affectionate, yes, and as ferocious as a lioness over her cubs, but she did not brim with sympathy and never had. Except, perhaps, that night on the mountain, when her screams and sobs echoed so loudly Alexios was sure all of Hellas heard her agony. For that Nikolaos had called her weak. Un-Spartan. It was not their way to coddle or apologize to children for the hard truths of the world, but rather to prepare them. Alexios didn’t know, sometimes, whether to be grateful for that or saddened by it.

She placed a hand on his wrist and leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I am sorry to hear that, my lamb,” she said. Immediately Alexios felt guilty for his uncharitable thoughts; Myrrine had always been his spear and shield. He was in a petty mood.

He shrugged and brightened his voice. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “you’re right. He _was_ kind.” That was a lie too, albeit of a different sort.

“Then all is well.”

Alexios coughed. “Indeed. _Chaire,_ Mater.”

Accepting the kiss she placed upon both of his cheeks, Alexios breathed into the warm hug she wrapped him in, her body still strong and lithe and _alive_ in his arms. It was no weakness to let himself be comforted by his mother’s presence after feeling its lack for so long. He let her go and saw her glance at what used to be their home, then watched her walk up the hill towards the palace with a final smile in his direction. The light of her torch had faded from sight by the time he sighed and rubbed his palms over his eyes. Perhaps he should just lie down right here and never move again.

Brasidas hadn’t been kind at all. Wasn’t, in fact, a kind man, though he was a good one. One of the best. Alexios trusted him with Myrrine’s safety as much as his own. But the truth of the matter was he had ruined Alexios’s life a little the night they met in Korinth and had never quite stopped.

Brasidas just… didn’t know it yet.


	2. Chapter 2

_Korinth, 431 BCE_

_Two years earlier_

 

A drink, Brasidas had proposed, to Alexios’s continuing good health and their new friendship. Anthousa, still, was unimpressed with them for having sided against her, choosing to kill the Monger quietly against her wishes; for Alexios it was even stranger to be the one advocating restraint for once. But whatever her personal feelings, she couldn’t deny their methods were effective. Not to their faces, at least. The Monger was dead, his reign of terror over Korinth at an end, and the city was in a celebratory mood. Brasidas and Alexios were the unsung heroes of the hour, and Anthousa never wavered in the role of consummate host.

Perhaps weighing her anger against how Alexios might one day be of further use to her, she offered the hospitality of the _porneion_ the night before he and Brasidas were to part ways. Servants and _hetaerae_ came and went, pouring drinks and offering food, trying to tempt them into pleasure and talk them out of their coin. When it became clear neither Alexios nor Brasidas was interested in additional company, however, they let them alone, leaving them to their wine and private conversation by the fire. Naught but a canopy and a gauzy curtain shielded their small alcove from other guests, but it was comfortable and private, padded with rich carpets and lush pillows fit for a king. Alexios could get used to this.

Even Ikaros had come to roost, cheekily stealing bites of food off a platter and chittering to himself like he’d pulled one over on them. Brasidas was utterly fascinated, having never seen an eagle so close, nor so tame, though Ikaros rudely snapped at his fingers when Brasidas tried to pet him. The wounded look on Brasidas’s face prompted Alexios to roll his eyes, throw an olive at the the malákas bird, and say, “Forget him. He’s more fickle than a cat. You’d have better luck befriending the Hydra.”

With great dignity, Ikaros began cleaning his long flight feathers, agonizingly meticulous and proud as a prince. Asshole. Somehow it made up for it when Brasidas tossed Alexios a devastating smile and boomed a laugh.

Beyond their little nook, Alexios could hear music, laughter, plus the not-so-distant moans and sighs of the hetaerae as they went about their work. The smells of wine, flowers, oil, sex, and incense hung heavy on the air. He felt drunk with it. Alexios could’ve rolled around like a cat in the floor cushions and draped himself across Brasidas’s lap. By Zeus, he wanted to.

Brasidas looked utterly irresistible. Lamplight reflected in his eyes and cast his skin in bronze, and he gleamed like a god of old as they bent their heads close together and spoke of everything and nothing, feasting upon the rich meats, olives, and succulent fruits Anthousa had sent for them to dine on. Relaxed from a night of drinking to new friends, allies, and the Spartan brotherhood, they might have passed for civilians.

Though he was a warrior born, Brasidas had a gift for storytelling any Athenian would envy. Fondly he told Alexios of his life in Sparta and his travels around Hellas, the many wonders—and tragedies, yes—he’d witnessed. He spoke of loneliness as well, of the life of a spy. He enjoyed the liberty it gave him but often missed being in command, surrounded by the company of his men. In that he and Alexios were united, for Alexios too knew the conflicting love of freedom and longing for a home.

As they traded stories, Brasidas sprawled comfortably, confidently upon the pillows, lax as any Achilles and twice as lovely. He was golden everywhere, from his strong arms to his muscular legs, honed to perfection by battle and Spartan life. Though they were perhaps fifteen years apart in age, twenty at most, Brasidas’s was the body of a younger man. Alexios longed to see the rest of him without armour, but it was a delicate thing to ask of another man without knowing where his interests lay—especially among Spartiates, who openly scorned men who desired other men, considered it yet another Athenian deficiency. Alexios had never cared for such petty, arbitrary rules, happy to fuck or be fucked by whomever was willing, but for all his bravado, his confidence failed him. He almost wished he hadn’t turned the hetaerae away. Perhaps it would’ve helped speed things along one way or another.

“You stare at me as if you want something,” Brasidas said abruptly in the midst of a conversation about, in retrospect, Alexios knew not what. His voice was as relaxed and good-humoured as ever, lazy almost, but his gaze was direct. That perpetually teasing smile lay full upon his mouth and infuriated and inflamed Alexios in equal measure. “From the heat of your gaze, one might guess what that is.”

Alexios blushed, caught. He hid his embarrassment poorly. “Apologies, my friend,” he managed after a brief struggle, rubbing his hand over his face. “I meant no offense by it. This wine is strong, and I am beginning to feel its influence—”

“It was not a rebuke.”

Alexios snapped his mouth closed so fast it made an audible click.

Brasidas laughed at that, deep and sultry, and turned to face him more fully. It brought their faces closer too. Alexios refrained from pulling back, unsure; his instincts had him torn in two directions. But Brasidas’s expression was soft, eyes half-lidded, and that did very inappropriate things to Alexios’s thoughts, especially when Brasidas dropped his gaze to his lips.

Mouth drier than bone, Alexios asked, “Then what?”

“Merely an invitation to speak your thoughts more freely. You might find you are... not the only one in want of something.” Brasidas reached out to drag the pad of his thumb beneath the swell of Alexios’s bottom lip in case his meaning needed clarification. It didn’t. Alexios felt his breath stutter.

Daringly Alexios bit the tip of Brasidas’s thumb and relished how it made his eyes go dark. His heart was slamming against his ribs suddenly. “Perhaps I should summon one of the hetaerae?” he suggested. “If you are… in want of something.”

A dismissive huff and a dangerous look was his response. Funny that Alexios had seen Brasidas kill, and kill well, and this was what made him seem the most deadly. “False ignorance does not suit you well, Misthios,” Brasidas said, and then his mouth took the place of his thumb upon Alexios’s lips.

His boldness was headier than Korinthian wine. Alexios groaned in his throat, opening for the force and hunger behind Brasidas’s kiss as he moved his hand to hold Alexios’s head steady, fingers tangled in his hair. He kissed as a commander should, confident and swift, calculating, strong. Brasidas bore him back into the cushions, their armor clanking together as he settled on top, and Alexios rolled over for him as easily as a dog.

“So eager,” Brasdas murmured into his mouth, unknowingly echoing Alexios’s thoughts. His breath wavered around another laugh.  

Alexios growled back, baring his teeth before he set them against Brasidas’s full lower lip. He opened his knees to cradle Brasidas’s warm, heavy body and wrapped his braid around his fist, as much in warning as to control the movement of his head. In response he felt Brasidas slide his hands up his thighs, beneath the leather _pteruges_  and the hem of his chiton until he was cupping Alexios’s backside. The delicate touch made him shiver.

“Do not tease me,” Alexios said lowly and a bit breathlessly. “It’s cruel.”

Another laugh. “Perhaps I wish to be.” Taking the invitation, Brasidas nudged their mouths together again, then their tongues. “Is it not cruel that I’ve waited all these days to have you?”

Alexios groaned. “Then you’ve tortured us both unnecessarily. Had you asked earlier, we could have been doing this already.”

“Hmmm.” Brasidas rumbled a quiet sound against Alexios’s lips that might’ve been a chuckle. Was there anything he did not greet with amusement? “Then you admit it: eager.”

“Maláka,” hissed Alexios, but to hide the twitch of a smile that threatened to give him away, he pulled Brasidas down again.

They kissed until Alexios’s breath felt tight and his insides were so twisted in knots that he felt quite mad with it. He was achingly hard just from Brasidas’s mouth and his not-insignificant weight pinning him to the floor cushions. Against his hip, Alexios could feel Brasidas’s erect length, hot as a brand even through layers of clothing, armor. It had been so very long since Alexios could remember needing something this badly. Sex was usually a fun itch to scratch when the opportunity presented itself. His desire for Brasidas felt more like a curse of the gods.

With a grunt of effort, he locked his legs around Brasidas’s hips and clutched his shoulders so he could roll them, using a combination of surprise and brute strength to slam him to the ground. The force of it startled an amusing “oof” out of Brasidas, even with the floor cushions to soften the impact. A metal stand clattered over, spilling a bowl of fresh flowers and dislodging an empty amphora of wine.

At the crash, Ikaros gave a screech and flapped his wings, leaping from his perch to hover above the chaos. It was pure luck they didn’t knock over a lamp and light the place on fire. There was a rustle of fabric and more flapping as the eagle took off with a disgruntled cry, followed by the shouts of startled partygoers outside. The brief, unexpected commotion made Alexios flash his teeth in a grin.

Narrowing his eyes like Alexios were no better than a rambunctious cub, Brasidas licked his lips, then bared his teeth right back. Alexios could've opened a vein on that wolf's smile.

“Clever little lion, aren’t you,” Brasidas said, breathing hard, and Alexios could see the heat in his eyes, an ember that smoldered from that spark of defiance. 

He didn’t know whether to be roused or chagrined at the vague reference to his grandfather Leonidas at a time like this, but Alexios was nothing if not a fast learner when it came to people, and he certainly recognized when he was being wound up on purpose. It got him hard, especially knowing Brasidas could—and would—keep at it until one of them snapped, with explosive results. He had a set of brass balls on him, Brasidas, and the way he flirted between good-natured amusement and reckless provocation was heady. No wonder they got along.

Oh, he hid it well behind that calm gaze and intelligent, level-headed demeanour, and to others he probably seemed reasonable, judicious. Safe. Counted on it to charm his way past people's defences and settle disagreements, whereas Alexios just came off like an asshole wherever he went. And Brasidas  _was_ those things, shrewd and rational and wise, but not only. Alexios wasn't fooled. Brasidas's blood ran red as any Spartan, spirit forged on the point of a spear, and a shadow of darkness lurked in him too. Compared to Alexios, who by his own admission was ruled by his temper, more often than not, that made him unpredictable.

Fortunately for them both, Alexios _liked_ unpredictable. Not knowing what to expect in a lover or a sparring partner sent a thrill down his spine. Every. Time.

So of course he had to go and poke the bear just to see what would happen. “Who are you calling little?” he shot back. “I’m bigger than you are.”

“That’s not true.” There was a glint of teeth as Brasidas grinned back. “I am taller, and many years your senior. Besides, are you bigger where it counts? That remains to be seen, Misthios.”

Alexios gave in to the laugh that wanted to shake free of him, feeling it full in his belly, sheer enjoyment of their banter and the promise of a lover unafraid to goad him. A fine opponent indeed, in bed or on the battlefield. Somehow it didn’t surprise him that Brasidas was both.

Sitting back on his haunches, Alexios shoved Brasidas’s pteruges out of the way and positioned himself against his cock, rubbing like a cat until they both groaned. He felt himself clench in excitement when Brasidas grabbed his thighs in a bruising grip.

“You were saying?” His breaths were coming harder now; Alexios wasn’t sure how convincing his challenge sounded, but he’d never been very good at knowing when to back down.

With a fond chuckle, Brasidas gave Alexios another squeeze and dared to slide his hands higher, higher, touch straying dangerously and deliberately close to the edge of Alexios’s perizoma. He ended with his hands bracketing Alexios’s hips, where he could urge him to grind against him harder. Alexios obliged, and Brasidas thrust up as he pulled Alexios down firmly, decisively, startling an undignified noise out of him.

Brasidas watched the movement of their bodies a moment, expression hungry, and sucked his lower lip between his teeth before he lifted his gaze to Alexios’s again.

It ached to look at him. He had the most striking almond-shaped eyes, upturned and almost feline; want had turned them a mossy hazel threaded with gold. Sweat had started to bead on his temples, his colour was high, staining his neck and collarbones despite his tanned skin, and his mouth was red and slightly parted, panting as if from exertion. It almost undid Alexios to know he could have this effect on someone so composed. He leaned forward to press his mouth, open and ungraceful, to his neck below his ear, where the sweaty, smoky taste of him was strongest. He sucked wantonly and hummed to himself. It was like drinking seawater: the more he drank, the thirstier he got.

Brasidas moaned deliciously, and when Alexios bit down on his throat, he cursed, laughed, then said, “Mercy, Eagle-Bearer! I said nothing.” At Alexios’s snort, he added wryly, “Your godlike beauty and physical prowess have left me speechless.”

Alexios leaned up so he could glare at him, but at the mischievous, flushed looked on Brasidas’s face, he just rolled his eyes. Snatching Brasidas’s hands off his waist, Alexios shoved them over his head and pinned them to the cushions, their fingers linked. Brasidas grunted but allowed it.

“Are you a poet or a soldier?” Alexios jeered. “Stop with the flattery and tell me what you want.” He paused. “Unless, of course, your plan was for us to say pretty words to each other for the rest of the evening. Not very Spartan of you.”

Each of Brasidas’s smiles was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud; the guffaw that rumbled out of him made his shoulders shake, juddering Alexios on top of him, and Alexios felt like he’d just won a prize.

“Oh, Alexios, you make me laugh,” Brasidas said between chuckles. He made no effort to free his hands, though he did flex his fingers lazily. “I cannot remember the last man who made me laugh as you do.”

“I’d prefer to be the last man you remember fucking the sense out of you,” Alexios answered.

To that, a single arched eyebrow and an amused “Hmmm.” Something to discuss, then. Or better yet, perhaps something they could wrestle out. Now that he was beginning to see the shape of things, find the curves and edges of Brasidas’s desire, Alexios might even lose to him on purpose. He certainly wasn’t opposed, much as the thought of losing anything irked him. Strategic retreats had their... benefits. Any soldier knew that.

He brought their mouths closer again, nipped teasingly at Brasidas’s bottom lip until he hissed. When Alexios pulled back slightly, Brasidas glowered a little, only to suck that same lip between his teeth. It made the short bristles beneath his chin stand out like spikes.

“How would you have me?” Alexios murmured against him. “Do you want my mouth? My hands?” He paused, and despite himself, his breath hitched. “Should we find someplace more private?”

The words, or maybe the unintentional breathiness of Alexios’s voice, were enough to plaster an expression on Brasidas’s face like he’d been drugged, but with a dazed look and a furrowed brow, he shook his head and then leaned up to brush another kiss across Alexios’s lips.

Gently he pulled his hands free of Alexios’s grip and used them to tug him up his body, even as Alexios frowned and started to ask, “What—”

“Hush. All things, in time.”

Alexios started to get the hint as soon as Brasidas had half pulled him up his chest, grip still insistent. _Oh_.

“Or that,” he blurted, flushing. The flood of lust that went through him almost bowled him over. Brasidas actually smirked at the haste with which Alexios scrambled up the rest of his body and settled his knees on either side of Brasidas’s head. “That works too.”

Their hands knocked and bumped in their haste to shove up his pteruges and chiton. Alexios’s hurry was understandable; Brasidas’s impatience less so. But it only made Alexios ache more, cock twitching in arousal and the sudden need to bury himself in that red, laughing mouth.

Together they managed to get his perizoma unknotted and pushed aside, letting his erection spring free. Brasidas snorted when it almost hit him in the face, somehow amused even now, then closed his fingers around Alexios’s length and gave a slow stroke that pulled the foreskin back from the head. _Gods_. Alexios groaned deep in his throat at the warmth and tightness of his calloused palm and fingers, just the right amount of rough from handling a spear. Even dry, it felt heavenly. His eyes fell shut in pleasure as he shuddered.

“Daydream later,” Brasidas said impatiently. A bit of a growl had seeped into his voice, and he slapped Alexios’s ass with his free hand, jerking him the last bit closer. “See to your work.” As if the point needed belabouring, he bit the inside of Alexios’s thigh, hard.

With a yelp, Alexios broke off in a string of curses. He stared at Brasidas in shock. His thigh stung like a maláka where Brasidas’s teeth had left a mark, but then he almost laughed at how annoyed Brasidas looked. Like an angry bearded cat, chin jutted belligerently. He continued to glower as if Alexios had done him some great offense by not shoving his cock in his mouth already. Well. A man didn’t have to bite him twice.

He grabbed his erection and roughly fisted Brasidas’s hair in his other hand, making his grip as punishing as he dared. His hair was thick and soft between his fingers, threaded with a little silver at the temples. Brasidas let out a grunt but clutched Alexios tighter, moaning under his breath, and Alexios’s stomach swooped dangerously.

As if in sympathy, his cock leaked precome. Alexios slapped it against Brasidas’s cheek, then rubbed the slick head over his full lower lip and growled, “Fine. If that’s how you’d have it.”

Their eyes met, Brasidas’s full of fire. In challenge he opened his mouth and lifted up so Alexios could push inside that wet warmth.

Immediately Alexios gave a strangled shout, head falling back, and his fingers spasmed at the shock of heat as he struggled to stay in control. He could tell, already, this Spartan would be the death of him. That seemed to be a pattern in his life.

He found himself crying out and gasping as though his sanity depended on it, and then, with encouragement from Brasidas’s hands and a muffled groan, let himself take his mouth with urgent rolls of his hips. Soon he was sliding punishingly in and out of that beautiful heat, pulling Brasidas’s head up to meet his thrusts, and Brasidas welcomed it with the hunger of any Spartan running headfirst into battle.

He was noisy too, moaning deep in his throat like he was the one receiving pleasure. He still gripped Alexios’s ass below his skirt to urge him to thrust harder, faster, but one-handed now, and a quick glance showed he’d started to fist his own flushed, leaking cock, stroking himself mercilessly in rhythm and canting his hips up for more. Alexios almost came at the sight and gave a particularly brutal thrust that made Brasidas cough.

He took him to the root, swallowed around him once, twice, throat working until Alexios gasped. He pulled back to let Brasidas gulp air and moan before pushing inside again, but that only made Brasidas more determined, curling his tongue playfully beneath the head and sucking hard enough to drive Alexios out of his mind. The decorations on his cuirass were rough against the tender skin of Alexios’s backside; that was sure to leave him scratched to Hades. Marked. He twitched to think of pressing against those welts later and thinking of how he got them, and he heard himself calling Brasidas’s name raggedly, too humbled by pleasure to know shame.

Sensing that Alexios was on the knife’s edge, Brasidas opened his eyes and looked up at him with an expression that could have melted iron. His hands knew how to slow the movements of Alexios’s hips the way a talented rider could command a horse with little more than a subtle shift of his seat, and Alexios found himself acquiescing without thought. His thighs trembled, and he panted, suddenly unsure who was in control.

Actually, that was a lie: it wasn’t him. Probably it never had been.

The glint of Brasidas’s gaze saw the moment Alexios realized it. He laughed at him with his eyes.

Malákas.

With a slow blink, Brasidas let Alexios’s cock fall from his mouth and grabbed it with his free hand, stroking slowly as they stared at each other. Alexios felt fit to burst, and small earthquakes wracked him all over. His cock was so hard he could think of almost nothing else. But he waited, watching for what Brasidas would do. That earned him a small smile and a twitch of Brasidas’s eyebrows: _Good boy_.

Brasidas held his gaze as he released Alexios’s cock to suck on two of his fingers, then withdrew them glistening with saliva. Inevitably he returned the hand to Alexios’s backside, and inevitably he slid them into the crease of his ass and swiped lightly, promisingly, over his hole. Alexios twitched. Apparently Brasidas wasn't one of those Spartans who abhorred male penetration.

His mouth fell open to pant helplessly as he struggled not to look away, then pushed back against Brasidas’s fingers. At that blunt, massaging pressure, he felt himself tremble in anticipation of more, _needing_ more. He arched, sighing, “ _Yes_ ,” and thrust into the tunnel of Brasidas’s fist.

Brasidas’s expression was unreadable. Eyes trained on Alexios, he turned to press a kiss against the inside of his thigh where he’d bitten him earlier, though this too he followed with a slow drag of teeth, beard tickling light enough to earn a shudder. He circled his fingertips against Alexios’s entrance and alternated teasing, tickling strokes with more insistent touches that barely pushed inside. Alexios crooned desperately, opening for him, and Brasidas merely tilted his head back so he was looking at Alexios from down his nose. Assessing and maddeningly unhurried.

Alexios felt a quiet growl escape him and tightened his fingers around that dark braid. “Brasidas.” He grabbed his wrist and tried to force the fingers deeper, force them inside where he wanted them most, but it was like trying to compell a statue to move.

He got a reproachful look. “Is there something you want, little lion?”

“You bastard,” Alexios spat. It came out as nearly a sob. His erection was actually beginning to _hurt_. “You know what I want.”

“And that is how you ask for it?”

“You wish me to beg, Brasidas?” Alexios didn’t know what was worse: that he was so close to doing so, or that they both knew it. “I was right before: you _are_ cruel.”

“And you are like a proud stallion who’d rather run himself into the ground than accept a master’s touch. Even if he craves it.”

Alexios bristled, and Brasidas just raised his eyebrows. He’d have punched him if it wouldn’t just prove whatever point Brasidas was trying to make.

“I don’t want you to beg; a stallion doesn’t beg for anything,” said Brasidas. His voice was fervent, catlike eyes even greener in their intensity. “He submits with full knowledge of his own strength, of the fact that he could overpower his master at any time, yet chooses not to. _That_ is what I wish. For you to surrender yourself and _trust me_.”

He released Alexios’s cock in favour of curling his fingers around one of his wrists, over the leather gauntlet; when he withdrew his touch from Alexios’s ass, Alexios couldn’t hold back the small whimper that escaped him. The sound made him flush so hard with embarrassment that he felt his cheeks grow hot. If anyone were to walk in right now and see him like this, they’d think him an absolute fool. That is, if they didn’t throw him out of the porneion on his ass first.

As Brasidas captured his other wrist as well and tried to push his arms behind his back, Alexios lost his composure, whatever was left of it, and struggled. In response Brasidas merely pressed his lips into a hard line and started to sit up, obviously intending to dislodge him, and the awful thought dawned that perhaps Brasidas would simply decide he was done, get up, and walk away. Walk away from _him_. Dread filled Alexios’s belly, and with difficulty, he forced himself still, blowing hard out his nose exactly— _fuck him_ —the way an angry horse might.

But Brasidas didn’t try to leave, and nor did he fight Alexios for dominance. Perversely he released his arms when a moment ago it had seemed so significant that he force Alexios to yield.

Alexios made a soft noise of distress, crying, “I don’t know what you are asking of me!” Gods, he had intended for this to be a quick fuck. Somehow it had turned into something else entirely, and Alexios knew not what it was, nor how to extricate himself from it. Perhaps the bigger issue was he didn’t quite want to, even despite how every part of him was screaming to get up and run, find different ground that was more stable and familiar and safe. When did Alexios ever, _ever_ give a fuck what was safe?

The expression on Brasidas’s face was unfathomable, but he was watching Alexios like he could see every thought careening through his skull. His eyes were bright and intent as he leaned forward to bring their faces close. He cradled his hands around Alexios’s head and held him firm so he could not look away.

“Have you ever thought about what compels Spartan soldiers to follow their commander into battle?” Caught off guard by the question, Alexios floundered a moment, but then Brasidas changed tack yet again. Always unsettling him, leaving him more off balance than a ship in a gale. “Or perhaps I shall phrase it another way, Misthios. When you were a child and Nikolaos would give you a command, did you obey him out of respect, or fear? Did you trust him to keep you safe and lead you down the surest path, or did you fight him as you are fighting me now?”

Alexios felt his lip curl; he watched Brasidas’s eyes track the movement. “You are not my pater,” he growled. Technically neither was Nikolaos, but that hardly seemed the point.

Brasidas laughed. For once Alexios heard no real humour in the sound. He hated it. “No, I’m not,” answered Brasidas. “Thank the gods for that. But I think you want me to be, in a way. I knew how it’d be with you the second I laid eyes on you.”

That certainly shut Alexios up. The shock of Brasidas’s words rattled him like a punch to the head, and he stared at him dumbly, mouth open but emitting no sound. Worst of all, somehow he was still as aroused as before they’d started this absurd discussion, and his cock leapt as though to remind them it was still there.

Stroking the side of Alexios’s face with his thumbs, Brasidas smiled. Kind. Always so fucking kind. With a soft touch he moved his hands to circle Alexios’s wrists where they were still crossed at the small of his back. Alexios had mostly forgotten about that until now, but at the touch, he felt so intensely aware that it was a struggle not to move away self-consciously.

“You fought me so viciously at first,” Brasidas murmured. The sudden approval was so thick in his voice that Alexios felt something warm and dangerous rise in his chest. His breath caught tellingly. Without thought he leaned in for a kiss but only succeeded in nuzzling Brasidas’s beard, panting warmly against his jaw. He felt Brasidas smile again and touch their foreheads together. “But no one is holding you, Alexios. And yet you haven’t moved from where I placed you.”

Like a reward, he shifted one hand to cup one asscheek, fingers stealing into the crease, but Alexios didn’t make the mistake a second time by trying to force him deeper. He did moan quietly, trembling, and shifted against the merciful restraint of Brasidas’s grip. But he didn’t break his hold, and Brasidas purred a sound at him and nipped his chin. Alexios allowed himself to arch against Brasidas’s hand as he gave him a little more. He delved further until Alexios felt that touch where he craved it most, still teasing but there.

This was a strange dance of give and take, but Alexios was beginning to understand, and like snow beneath the sun’s warmth, he let himself melt into it little by little. Allowed himself to take on a new shape that was unfamiliar and new and yet somehow perfectly natural. When he tilted his chin to bare his throat, Brasidas kissed him there softly, teeth barely scraping, and Alexios twisted his arm so he could grip Brasidas’s wrist right back, holding him. He felt Brasidas give a shuddering sigh.

“What do you want, little lion?” he murmured.

Alexios groaned. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Are you asking, or telling?”

The fight went out of him at the question. Simply bled out, weak against the need that trembled through him, desperate for whatever Brasidas would give. _Trust_ , he tried to remind himself. _He’s asking for your trust._

He sagged, burying his face into the crook of Brasidas’s neck. For the first time since Mount Taygetos, he found himself whispering a word he’d vowed never to say again. “Please.”

It emerged rusty from disuse, but Brasidas hummed encouragement. His eyes had gone dark as thunderclouds again, and he bit his lip as he watched Alexios surrender, jutted his chin as though facing an invisible foe. Brasidas, perpetually calm, patient, unruffled Brasidas. To see him dance with desire was as enthralling as it was being on the receiving end of that intensity.

Alexios’s voice was stronger on the second attempt. “Brasidas. Please fuck me.”

That undid Brasidas’s composure. With a jerky nod that hinted at his unravelling control, Brasidas surged up and kissed him. At the same time he pushed one of his fingers into Alexios, finally, and his mouth fell open around a low moan even as Alexios gasped, then cried out. Feeling like he was about to tip over, lightheaded with want, Alexios gave up trying to hold his arms behind his back and looped them around Brasidas’s neck instead. He got no reproach for that, only Brasidas shifting to give Alexios’s cock a hard stroke, then urging him up farther on his knees so he had more room. Even Brasidas seemed reluctant to let their mouths part.

He lifted his hand to his mouth and sucked generously on two fingers, which he returned to circle teasingly behind Alexios’s balls, then farther back to his hole. Their eyes locked and held as he pushed back inside, both fingers now, and they moaned into each other’s mouths. Alexios saw stars when Brasidas curled his fingers and found the place inside that sent a flood of toe-curling ecstasy through every part of him, pooling heavy in his balls and at the base of his spine. It was like filling up with molten bronze. He nearly shouted and had to bite down on his fist to muffle the sound.

“There, yes?” asked Brasidas, then nodded again and pressed harder into that spot until Alexios was shuddering and animal sounds poured out of him in a voice he didn’t recognize.

Beyond thought, he bit down on Brasidas’s bottom lip. He tasted blood. Good. Brasidas swore and retaliated by working his hand faster, brutalizing whatever that thing was inside a man that could make him come apart at the seams. Alexios’s climax was so close he could taste it, and Brasidas was relentless, ruthless the way only a Spartan could be.

More than that, he seemed to feed off every evidence of Alexios’s pleasure the way some men fed off pain. Be damned to him, but Brasidas actually laughed breathlessly, like a taunt. It only made Alexios cry out louder and shift his hips back into Brasidas’s touch, impaling himself so he could hear more of those answering groans and watch his expression go slack with desire even as he continued to drive Alexios senseless. As almost an afterthought, he got his hand around his and Alexios’s erections. Alexios flinched so hard he almost fell out of Brasidas’s lap, then arched helplessly into the tunnel of his fist and the hard flesh that rubbed against his own. He was dripping; they both were. The slick slide of them, the throb of Brasidas’s pulse against his cock, caused Alexios’s eyes to flutter and roll back. It was such a torturous, beautiful awareness to have of another person, to be made inseparable through desire.   

Between sloppy, distracted kisses and rubbing their faces together, Brasidas wet his fingers again, seemingly just for the pleasure of watching Alexios whimper and jerk when he fucked back into him, curled his fingers just so until Alexios stuttered blasphemies and trembled as if Zeus had struck him. They were both sweaty, both panting. Brasidas looked hungrier than Dionysus. And oh, maybe he was. Alexios had never felt so intoxicated, so insatiable in his life. If he thought he was close to coming before, it was nothing compared to this. He wanted to give Brasidas every part of himself, piece by piece until there was nothing left.

“Someday I am going to put my mouth on you here,” Brasidas said darkly, face tilted up to Alexios’s and breaths coming heavy, “and feast upon you until you scream.”

His fingers, plunging deep and working hard enough to tease the edge of pain, gave no doubt he meant every word. With his other hand he stroked them harder until they were grinding together violently as completion neared, little better than rutting beasts. Alexios whimpered against Brasidas’s mouth, and Brasidas, the malákas, kept talking.

“But more than that, I want to strip you naked and fuck you until you forget all other names but mine. Until you are _ruined_.” He bit hard at Alexios’s throat and flicked out his tongue to soothe the sting at Alexios’s soft cry. Their gazes met. Brasidas was grinning, clearly enjoying Alexios’s agony. Torturing them both, maybe. He certainly didn’t look unaffected. “Then yes, perhaps, I would also hear you beg.”

“I’ll fucking beg for you now,” Alexios harshed out, finding his voice again. It sounded like he’d swallowed rocks. He clenched at Brasidas’s hair and worked his hips harder, more desperate to come than he thought possible. “I’ll do anything you fucking want.”

A laugh, low and wanton. For all his dark vows, Brasidas thrust back against Alexios and worked his fingers like a man halfway to insanity himself. “I do not doubt it, little lion. If our paths cross again, be assured I shall remember that promise,” he ground out. His voice was almost unrecognizable. “But for now all I want is to see you come on my fingers. Let the gods and all of Korinth know to whom you belong.”

It might have been his words or the growl Brasidas had reduced himself to, or perhaps the way he thrust his fingers impossibly deeper once, twice, and then snarled Alexios’s name as he came hotly between them; perhaps it was all or none of those things in the end. It didn’t matter. Alexios felt as though his stomach bottomed out, and he clenched hard enough to see Brasidas’s face crumple in ecstasy.

He ground back against his hands until the flame sparked and caught, hollowing him out with white fire, scorching him down to the bone. He did, indeed, shout loud enough to let all of Olympus know he belonged to Brasidas, and Brasidas, even if he muffled his cries against Brasidas’s throat and clung to him as he released in messy strings against his cuirass, over Brasidas’s hand and their cocks. An ambitious spurt caught Brasidas’s cheek and the edge of his beard; one splattered beneath Alexios’s chin. Brasidas wrung every bit of it from him til pleasure danced on the sword’s edge of agony. For what felt like an eternity, he shuddered and twitched through it, gasping. His climax was a beast of teeth and claws that left him sobbing, aching all over.

His only satisfaction was that Brasidas, when Alexios dared to open his eyes, looked no less ravaged. His mouth was bloody and swollen from where Alexios had bitten him, and sweat stuck his eyelashes together and turned his eyes an even more arresting shade of gold-touched green. Semen glistened on his cheek and in his beard. Nearly silent but for their softening gasps and rumbles of pleasure, they heaved together, clutching each other like men who’d been shipwrecked on a distant, unfamiliar shore. Brasidas stroked Alexios’s hair and cradled him through lingering aftershocks, murmuring nonsense against his ear, voice fierce with pride and affection. Alexios was shocked to realize his face was wet with tears, which he tried to wipe away against Brasidas’s shoulder. His body felt… not his own. Even half-outside his senses, not knowing what he wanted comforting for or why, it was nice to be held.

Eventually he started to come back to himself. A fog lifted. Rather than try to pull away, however, he plunged right back in again, knocking Brasidas flat and kissing him desperately, like he hadn’t just come up for air. Something settled and went calm when Brasidas grabbed Alexios’s hair and kissed him back, no less passionately for one so recently sated. There was a brief grapple amidst the cushions as Brasidas fought to get on top, bruising Alexios’s mouth further with licks and bites, but in this, Alexios was the more skilled. He rolled them again easily, and this time there were no lessons, no admonishment, however patiently delivered. Brasidas let himself be pinned, embraced. Thanked.

Alexios’s first target was the streak of come on Brasidas’s cheek, followed by another round of breathless kisses before he set his attention to Brasidas’s hands. If he hadn’t realized what Alexios was after, he did now, for Brasidas uttered a soft, shocked groan when Alexios took his fingers into his mouth one by one to clean them, tasting them. He cried out and gave a full-body jerk as Alexios kissed his way farther down to give his sensitive, barely softened cock the same treatment. He sucked him, moaning, until Brasidas twitched powerfully, swore, and clutched his hair to pull him off. Alexios released him with a soft _pop_ and rose to kiss him again instead, mouth still hungry.

He pulled away to find Brasidas flushed and looking like someone had hit him over the head with a wooden plank. That was fair turnabout, thought Alexios. He grinned up at him with a lion’s smile, feeling much more himself. Alexios didn’t know what it said about him that being an asshole was just the thing to set him to rights. But nor was he unaware that something, somehow, had changed in him. It niggled like a loose tooth.

“Zeus’s balls,” Brasidas said, breathing hard and still staring at him in shock.

Alexios burst out laughing at that and didn’t resist when Brasidas tugged him up to press their mouths together again, still baffled but curious, apparently, for a taste. All too willingly, Alexios gave it to him, savouring the quiet groan that rumbled in Brasidas’s throat. He gave an appreciative murmur at the hands Brasidas slid down to cup his ass, holding them together. Gods, at this rate Alexios would be ready for another round.

“Hearing you curse is perhaps the strangest thing I’ve experienced all night,” he chuckled against Brasidas’s lips.

“Why?”

“I almost thought you too dignified.”

Brasidas’s eyebrow twitched as he pulled back to look at him. “I’m not too dignified for anything,” he said, giving Alexios’s ass a meaningful squeeze. “I thought I’d made that amply clear, at least.”

“What you are is a sick, depraved individual,” Alexios answered. He couldn’t help but grumble a little as he said it, though off of Brasidas’s confused and somewhat offended expression, clarified, “You fuck like a satyr. I’m surprised Zeus hasn’t come down from his mountain just to challenge you for stealing his thunder. No pun intended.”

“I think what you’re trying to say is I fuck like the king of gods, not a satyr,” Brasidas said with a laugh. As if he hadn’t just uttered a shameless blasphemy, he leaned up to nip at Alexios’s ear, then murmured, “You’ve seen nothing of my depravity yet, little lion. But I’d like you to.”

A weak pulse of lust made Alexios groan, then lean his forehead against Brasidas’s shoulder. For not the first time, it occurred to him Brasidas might actually kill him. He felt like he’d gone six rounds with a bear, and they hadn’t even undressed. “I might not survive that,” he admitted. “Not with my sanity intact.”

Brasidas stroked his hair, then his cheek, and urged Alexios to look at him. “I think you’d be surprised,” he said with the kind of earnestness only he could pull off. He kissed the corner of Alexios’s mouth and gazed at him so tenderly that Alexios’s chest clenched. “You were every bit as gorgeous as I imagined you’d be, letting yourself give in. Touched by Aphrodite herself, I’m certain of that. It almost hurt to look upon you.”

Alexios frowned, though not because of Brasidas’s honeyed words. For a moment he merely studied him, unsure how to ask the question that’d been rattling around his brain. In the end it was infinitely more simple and more complicated than he was making it out to be.

“How… how did you know?” He shook his head and fought back the urge to get angry about it again. The only fight was with himself. He didn’t even know why it should trouble him again, now, when it was clear as anything that surrendering to Brasidas had been like putting a key into a lock. “It was like you saw something I didn’t even know I wanted.”

“I lead Spartans into battle,” Brasidas answered with naked honesty in his gaze. He said it so easily that Alexios almost scoffed, then forced himself to remain silent. Brasidas rewarded him with a small smile, sensing what it cost Alexios to listen. “I’ll grant you you’re harder to read than most, but I can tell when a man needs the opportunity to lead. And when he wishes to be commanded.”

Alexios bristled. “You speak as though there is any greater shame for a Spartan than to let another man possess him.”

“There _is_ no shame in it.” Watching him a moment longer, Brasidas stroked his thumb over Alexios’s bottom lip. “Our country does not agree with me on this matter… nor several others.” He shook his head. “You are young still, Alexios. But you know better than most that Sparta can be wrong about a great many things, including what a man desires in his heart. Or doesn’t desire, in some cases. I try not to dwell on it.”

Alexios returned the weighty stare and did not say anything for several seconds. Brasidas let him look. “That is as much absolution as an admission, I think,” Alexios said at last. He didn’t have to press further. After all, Brasidas was lying here with him. Alexios experienced the weight of that shared truth every time he looked at a woman and failed to feel anything more, anything like the things he was told he was supposed to want.

“Perhaps,” Brasidas said and tilted his head in acknowledgement. “And perhaps one day we will speak of it more. But know that you aren’t alone in desiring things that would make us a laughingstock.”

“You’re a terrible comfort,” Alexios answered with a snort.

“But a magnificent fuck. You said it yourself.”

Off Alexios’s unimpressed look, he winked, and it was an uncertain relief to see the playful Brasidas returning. Mostly it left Alexios feeling like he didn’t know him at all, but he wanted to. By the gods, he wanted to. The realization left a hollow weight in his stomach that he might never get the chance to do so. Their lives were so uncertain.

As if sensing Alexios’s thoughts were turning toward the maudlin, Brasidas kissed him again, then gave his thighs a squeeze and sat up. He poured another glass of wine and held it out. “Come now, don’t make that face. Being good at killing and bad at showing human emotion are the two qualities that make for the ideal Spartan.”

“I suppose one out of two isn’t bad,” Alexios allowed. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he accepted the wine and was a bit surprised to see the world was still going on without them. Brasidas had somehow managed to turn Alexios’s life upside-down in the space of a couple of hours, yet the musicians played on and the hetaerae continued to go about their business like nothing had happened. Alexios supposed he should be grateful; at least no one had walked in on them, come to investigate why the eagle-bearing misthios sounded like he was being murdered. Happily.

He smirked to himself at that and took a sip of wine to hide it, then offered the glass to Brasidas. Absurdly he was pleased when he accepted, taking a long drink while he held Alexios’s gaze. Even without touching, Brasidas had the ability to send a shiver down his spine. Would Alexios ever forget the things he had promised to do to him, should they happen to meet again? Doubtful.

“Pass the night with me,” he said in a low voice. He reached out to curl his hand around Brasidas’s where he held the cup. “Tomorrow I set sail to find my mater and the _Siren Song_. But I would have you again before then.” Alexios paused, swallowed. Corrected himself and let the truth slip out unimpeded. “I would give myself to you again.”

A slow, wistful smile crossed Brasidas’s face. Alexios’s heart sank to his knees at the expression, and he pulled his hand away, only for Brasidas to catch it before he could withdraw completely. He brought it to his lips and laid a kiss upon the palm, held it there for a second. He closed his eyes, and Alexios couldn’t begin to know what to think. But when Brasidas looked at him again, he saw the truth plain in his gaze.

“Nothing would give me more joy, or more pleasure,” Brasidas murmured. Alexios’s doubt must have shown on his face, for Brasidas cupped his cheek and kissed him softly, then stood and held out his hand to help Alexios up. Facing each other, he said, “Alas, I cannot. Sparta’s presence in Korinth is strong; now that it’s known I have business in the city, the polemarch at Akrokorinth Fort will expect my report. I can offer you shelter there for the night, if you need it, but unless we both want to expose ourselves to further difficulty, I am afraid it cannot be in my bed.”

A part of Alexios wanted to snarl and pace at the refusal, a little lion indeed, but they were both adults, and Brasidas spoke true and not out of malice. He sighed and nodded, crossed his arms. “I shouldn’t. There’s a soldier there, Bardas, who might actually kill me on sight if he catches me.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Of that I’ve no doubt. I would like to hear it sometime, if the fates see fit to put you in my path again.”

“Perhaps they’ll put you in mine,” Alexios answered with humour he didn’t feel.

“A far more likely occurrence,” Brasidas agreed. “You do seem to have them wrapped around your little finger. Much as you do me.”

“Hm.”

Brasidas sighed and crooked his finger, bearing his sulkiness as patiently as he did everything else. It was awfully tolerant considering Alexios was acting no better than a child. “Alexios. Come here.”

When Alexios reluctantly leaned toward him again, he allowed himself to be kissed, then kissed some more until he felt himself relenting. Brasidas’s mouth was sweet, his tongue persuasive, but even willing acceptance left a bitter aftertaste.

“We will meet again,” Brasidas said firmly when he released him, though he held on to Alexios’s arms. His face was achingly sincere, eyes intent as ever. “Do you trust me?”

“It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s the gods’ foul sense of humour.”

“I suppose that will have to do.” He gave Alexios a final squeeze, then seemingly against his better judgement, pulled him close to press one last kiss to his cheek. “Know this pains me also,” he said softly. “ _Erroso_ , Alexios. This is not goodbye.”

The farewell caught in his throat. Alexios just nodded and ducked his head, watching from the corner of his eye as Brasidas righted his armor as best he could, gathered his spear and shield, and left the warm safety of their alcove with a lingering backward glance. Then he was gone, and Alexios spent a few minutes clenching and unclenching his fists before he could force himself to move. He spared another glance at the evidence that remained of their tryst and allowed himself a sigh.

“Chaire, Brasidas,” he whispered. “I’ll be waiting.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A few other notes for context:
> 
> \- Assassin's Creed Odyssey's timeline is JACKED. The game makes it seem like everything happens in the space of a few months, when in reality it takes place over almost a decade (431 BCE-422 BCE). I've done my best to stay true to the timeline of the book and actual historical events, but there are a few things the game flubs for effect, like the fact that Sparta was banned from participating in the Olympics during the Peloponnesian War (AND ATHLETES COMPETED NAKED, YOU COWARDS). 
> 
> \- Canonically Alexios is 22/23 when he first meets Brasidas, which is weird to me because he basically looks like he emerged from the womb as a fully formed 35-year-old man and stays that way for the entire game. Brasidas I assume to be in his late 30s/early 40s given his political and military achievements, and the fact he was well-known to Myrrine prior to fleeing Sparta. So there's a significant age gap there, though Alexios is obviously of age.
> 
> \- Why doesn't anyone talk about the fact that Myrrine is bisexual? We cut to Alexios's look of mortification when he sees her with Timo, and then it's never mentioned again. I NEED MORE INFORMATION, UBISOFT.
> 
> \- The ancient Greeks, including Sparta, had a spectacularly fucked-up view of sexuality where it concerned m/m and f/f relationships (what else is new). Institutionalized pederasty was a thing, but only if you were a free citizen and a married man. (I read somewhere one of the ways the state tried to entice men to take wives was by throwing parties with lots of beautiful young boys and then restricting the guest list to married men only). Homosexual relationships outside of that context were frowned upon and open to ridicule, especially for a grown man seen as taking the "passive"/bottom role traditionally reserved for the eromenos (guess versatility wasn't part of the vocab?). As far as I can see, the main exception was for partners who began their relationship within the context of pederasty, then kept boning after the eromenos reached maturity. (Just so you know, I typed all of that while trying not to gag.)  
> Queer women were barely even talked about in such a male-obsessed culture, but that was generally considered to be taboo as well. _Assassin's Creed Odyssey_ portrays a pretty liberal and open view of queerness in the game, but it wasn't like that IRL. The homophobia of the culture and time period is what informs this story, to a much greater extent than the game's laissez-faire attitude towards sex.
> 
> \- I will die mad about the fact that Brasidas wasn't a romance option in this game.


End file.
